by John Shirley
Katie shook her head. “I will see this bank in court. My uncle is a lawyer, and I have already written to him. Tell me, Mr. Fuller. Has Tom Harning been in to see you? Has he got a hand in all this?”
His eyes snapped open wide. He went from blushing to pale in an instant. “Now, why . . .” He cleared his throat. “No, ma’am.”
“He wants our land. He’s been pushing for it. And he’s a pretty powerful man around here. Seems like a mighty big coincidence.”
“Mr. Harning— No. He’s . . . this is the bank’s decision. And I must . . .” He cleared his throat again. “That is, I have to bid you farewell for now, Mrs. Durst. I must see Mr. Gaffell now about a . . . on a certain matter . . .”
Sensing that the bank wasn’t going to budge—that Mr. Fuller was about to squirm right out of his chair and rush out of the room—Katie stood up and said, “This isn’t going to do your reputation a speck of good, Ralph Fuller, or this bank’s either.”
She turned and walked out, wondering what Mase would have done if he were here. Maybe just what she was going to do. Head for a lawyer. There was none in town, but there was always Uncle Forrest.
She crossed the street, stepping over the copious droppings of a team of oxen, and went to Tomas’s general store. He would see her letter to Aunt Lizzy was put aboard the Butterfield stage tomorrow.
It could well be that Lizzy would be of no help. Her husband, Uncle Forrest, had moved away from her. Lizzy lived on money Forrest earned from his lawyering—a law practice that mostly involved traveling from town to town, but Katie had heard from her aunt that the two of them scarcely spoke. It was hard to know where he could be reached. She had to hope Lizzy would know. Uncle Forrest had a kindness for her and Mase and Jim. She thought he might help . . . if she could find him.
* * *
* * *
Are you done drinking yourself to perdition yet?” Queenie asked. She was standing in front of Hiram’s table, fists on her hips, looking at him with her head cocked and her eyebrows raised. He knew that look. Women took on that aspect with him after a time.
“Why, I’m past perdition and on the way to the next place after it,” said Hiram.
He was sitting in a corner of the Stew Pot Saloon, with a bottle of brandy and a deck of cards, playing solitaire. It was a moderately busy night in Leadton. He glanced around the smoky room, saw miners and merchants and a handful of drifters lining the bar. Three men played cards nearby and a couple of out-of-work cowboys were betting on who could spit into a spittoon at ten feet distance. “I’ll tell you what it is, Queenie. . . .” He slapped down a card and said, “I’m out of a job, and I’m pondering my next move.”
“I thought that was going to be New Orleans—the two of us?”
“Don’t have enough money.”
“I have some saved. A pretty good pile. We can use mine.”
“I thank you kindly, but I’ll make my own.”
She snorted. “Men and their pride!”
“I don’t think you’d like me much if I didn’t have that kind of pride,” he said. “Truth is”—he slapped down a card—“it’s the only kind I have left. Got a good look at myself out there on that trail with those sheepherders. Didn’t like it. Don’t know that Hiram Durst fella.”
“Now you’re talking drunk.”
“Not so drunk as all that.” He put down the cards and poured a drink. “Just you wait. One more hour and I’ll be talking drunk for true. Why don’t you get a glass and join me?”
“I’ve got to get the girls up, start ’em to work the bar, sell some spirits.” She looked around and shrugged. “Leastways it’s peaceful in here. The Jack of Hearts, now, is like to run wild with those rustlers coming through.”
“Which rustlers are those? You mean the Kelsos?”
“Never heard the Kelsos were rustling.”
“Whenever they have nothing else to do. If it’s not them, who is it?”
“Man named Cleland and a couple of pals—they look like saddle bums. They’ve got some kind of understanding with the sheriff.”
“Do they?” Now he found himself interested. Anything to discommode Mike Greer. “Hal Binder still running the place? I thought Sanborne was going to run him out.” There was a long-standing rivalry between the two saloonkeepers, and Murch Sanborne had been trying to force Binder out of business for close onto a year.
“Truth is, I’m suspicious that Sanborne put those Cleland boys up to hurrahing Binder’s place,” she said.
“Now, that’s a point of interest,” Hiram said. He set his drink down with a clack. “I think I’ll have a word with Binder. Might ask for a job . . .”
“What!”
“See you later.”
“Don’t make any damned-fool drunk’s decisions, Hiram!”
He winked at her and went up to his room, fetched his double-barrel ten-gauge shotgun, and descended the outside stairs to the street. Across the graveled road, a few doors to the left, was the Jack of Hearts. The winking harlequin figure of the jack, sporting five hearts held in his two hands, was painted across the big false front of the building, now scantly lit by a few streetlamps and moonlight.
Hiram crossed the road, went through the double doors into the dance hall. There were surprisingly few customers. Just four at the bar, a couple of men standing at the faro table in the corner, a few near the stage. Two half-clad girls were gyrating on the small stage to an accordion player and a man beating a bass drum. The girls were singing something impossible to hear.
Carrying the shotgun as casually as a man can carry one into a saloon, Hiram went to the bar and signaled Stanley, the black bartender. “Glass of beer!” he called, leaning the ten-gauge against the bar.
As Stanley brought the beer, Hiram assessed the three men sitting close in front of the stage, each with his own bottle of whiskey to hand. They were all dressed like cowboys, with buckskin vests and well-worn broadbrim hats; they were unshaven and dirty as if they’d just come off the range. The taller, big-nosed one in the middle had an old Confederate rifleman’s cap and a Colt Dragoon pistol on the small table in front of him; he was chewing on an unlit cigar and gawking at the shapelier of the two dancers. There was a flicker of fear in the girl’s eyes when she glanced at the man in the Confederate hat.
Hiram paid for the beer and asked, “Say, Stanley, who are those three?”
“That’s Niall Cleland in the Reb hat,” said Stanley, bending near to be heard. “Those other two—I don’t know their names. They follow him around like puppies. They’ve been raising hell in here every night. Boss is scared of them.”
Cleland chose that moment to stand up, grab the accordion player by his instrument, and shove him hard offstage. The man fell on his back, his accordion caterwauling as he went. “This music is hell on a man’s ears!” Cleland shouted.
“There I have to agree with him,” Hiram said.
“Dick’s all right. He don’t deserve that!” Stanley said.
“I expect that’s true,” Hiram said, nodding.
Cleland was taking a swing at the drum banger—who ducked and ran for the door, drum tucked under his arm. The girls were cowering back against the wall.
“You girls—sing!” Cleland shouted. “That’s my music! Purty girls a-singin’!”
Cringing, the dancers began to sing “My Old Kentucky Home” in frightened voices.
“Why doesn’t Binder kick them out, Stanley?” Hiram asked.
“Cleland’s known for killing, is why. Killed two men in Morrisville. The sheriff should chase him out, but the story I heard is . . . Well, it’s not my place to say.”
“Where’s Binder?”
“He’s in the back.”
Hiram fished in his pocket and came up with a silver dollar, slipped the coin to Stanley. “Be obliged if you could ask him to come and have a quick word with m
e.”
Stanley tossed the dollar in the air, caught it, and nodded. He went through the door behind the bar. Cleland was dancing around, clapping his hands to make rhythm for the song the girls sang so raggedly, and his men were laughing.
Hal Binder came out from the back room, followed by Stanley. Binder was a round-faced man with a handlebar mustache, a pair of Ben Franklin spectacles, and a small whiskey-reddened nose. He wore a pin-striped suit and a string tie. He glowered toward Cleland, then turned to Hiram. “What do you want, Durst?”
“I’m just surprised you put up with those yahoos there, Hal.” Hiram nodded toward Cleland.
“Sheriff won’t back me up, and I’m not going to fight ’em myself!”
“I need a job, and you need this place protected. Suppose I can get rid of those idiots for you?”
“You mean a full-time job here?”
“That’s right. If folks are going to come in here and try to drive you out of business, you need someone to nip that in the bud! I’ll watch over the place. Sit in the corner with my shotgun. You won’t have a lick of trouble.”
Binder gnawed a knuckle, eyeing Cleland, who was now manhandling the shapely copper-haired girl. Cleland had one hand around her neck and the other on her bosom. “Long as it’s legal.”
“It’ll be legal—but it might be a mess. Might need a mop after.”
Binder shrugged. “Hell, I got a mop.”
Hiram nodded, scooped up his shotgun, cocked it, and, holding it pointed down at his side, strode across the room to Cleland.
“Hey, muttonhead!” Hiram yelled.
The man in the Reb hat spun around and stared, blinking at him. The other two men gawped as if Hiram were a ghost. The two girls used their chance and scurried to cringe behind the bar.
Hiram raised his voice so that everyone in the room could hear. “My name is Hiram Durst, Cleland, and I have decided that you disgust me! You disgust me like an overflowing privy! You disgust me like a pig eating its offspring! You wear that hat like you’re proud of it, but no son of the South is proud of you! Bullying musicians and women—acting the drunken buffoon. I look upon you, Cleland, and I feel nothing but disgust!”
“You son of a—!” Cleland blurted, reaching for the pistol on the table. He grabbed it, swung it toward Hiram, who was raising the shotgun.
Hiram braced and pulled one of the two triggers.
The shotgun blast threw Cleland back into the table; it shattered as he fell on it, twitching and bleeding atop the splintered wood.
“I’ve still got one shell in this shotgun,” Hiram said, swinging the muzzle toward the two other men in the gang.
“No!” yelled one of them, raising his hands.
“Don’t!” cried the other, holding his hands out as if to block the shotgun.
“You two run through that door, get on your horses, and ride!” Hiram snarled. “And don’t ever come back to this town!”
The men turned and bolted through the door. Within seconds Hiram heard the clatter of galloping horses. Hiram laid the shotgun across a table and wiped cold sweat from his forehead.
That was when Sheriff Greer came stalking in. “I heard a shot—!” He stopped, staring at Cleland’s body.
“Had to shoot him, Mike,” Hiram said. “He was going to kill me. Just for telling him he disgusted me.”
“It’s true!” Binder said, hurrying over from the bar. “Cleland went for his gun!”
“It is!” the copper-haired girl shouted. “We all saw it! Self-defense!”
Everyone in the bar chimed in with the same tune. Greer took one more look at Cleland. “I’ll get the undertaker,” he growled. He headed for the door. He stopped there and turned to Hiram. “Looks like you’ve got this one covered—but you’d better not put a step wrong, Durst! You’d better step right careful!”
Then Greer walked out the door, and Binder yelled for a mop.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Twenty-eight days on the drive to Wichita.
The sun was settling toward the horizon, coloring the low clouds and the misty hills a rusty red as Mase rode back to the herd. He waved his hat at East Wind, who waved back and cantered his horse to meet him alongside Pug, who was riding swing.
“There’s a band of Chickasaw, about forty warriors, camped up ahead about a quarter mile,” Mase told them. “They’re right in our way, and I figure they’re waiting for us.”
“They were out in the open?” East Wind asked.
“They were. Doesn’t look like an ambush. You speak their lingo?”
East Wind shrugged. “I speak Siouan. But I’ve got some Choctaw, too, and it’s close to Chickasaw. And there’s signs we all know. Most know some words in English and Spanish, too.”
“You come along, then. I’m looking for a Chickasaw round here named Cloudy Moon. Find out if he’s there, and if he is, we’ll parley with him.”
“Just you and this boy?” Pug asked, rocking back a little in the saddle. “You loco, Mase?”
“I’ll bring Lorenzo and Denver, too.”
“Now, hold on,” Pug said, frowning. “You need more men along than that!”
Mase shook his head. “Suppose it’s all to keep us distracted while they raid the herd?”
“Could be,” East Wind said.
“That’s why I need you and the other men to watch the herd, Pug,” Mase said. “East Wind, can you fire a rifle?”
East Wind gave him a snort of disgust. “’Course I can.”
“We’ll loan you one. I’m going to get my pistol. You go and get Jimson and Lorenzo. Tell Jimson he can bring his six-gun. We’re going to avoid trouble, but it’s best to look like we’re well armed. We’ll meet up at the chuck wagon. Pug, let’s go ahead and make camp here. Have Dollager start a meal—better make it big in case we have guests.”
Half an hour later, the four drovers were riding up within twenty yards of the Chickasaw camp at the base of a low hill crowned with a granite outcropping. The camp had a spur-of-the-moment look, with men sitting about on blankets laid in the grass near a small campfire—that seemed more smoke than fire—with a few pottery jugs and baskets about it.
“They could be on a picnic,” Jimson muttered.
Ponies and mustangs, their flanks painted with hand circles and hand imprints, were picketed nearby. The Chickasaw warriors wore breechcloths, short jackets of deer hide, and thigh-high boots of the same leather. Every bare spot on them was painted or tattooed. The sides of their heads were shaved; their only hair, apart from colored scalp locks, was cut down to a flattened ridge running front to back, and from it drooped the feathers of eagles and hawks.
The first impression of a complacent camp was deceptive: Mase saw about twenty warriors ranged about the rocks above, some squatting, some standing, and he counted seven rifles among them, the others with bows and arrows. All of them were watching him and his companions. Mase figured if there was any trouble, those men on the rocks would open fire and shoot the drovers off their horses without a second thought.
“Hold here,” said Mase, reining in.
The drovers stopped, and Mase raised a hand to show they’d come in peace. East Wind gave a more complex series of hand signs. An Indian of about forty-five, with a mien of authority about him, stood up and spoke to the others. Three of the warriors near him stood up, with rifles in their hands.
“That older one has the look of a minko,” East Wind murmured.
“What would that be?” Lorenzo asked.
“A Chickasaw war chief.”
The minko strode toward the cowboys, his escort following with rifles held at ready but not aiming at anyone. The Chickasaw deputation stopped about twenty feet away, the war chief raising a hand in greeting. He spoke in his own dialect, pointing past them back along the trail. He had an aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and a diagonal scar that slante
d through part of his forehead and across his left eye socket; the milky eye was blinded.
The chieftain made a fairly long speech directed at East Wind, mostly in Chickasaw. Then he fell silent, waiting. East Wind responded in a mix of Indian lingos, with a few English phrases, including the words “plenty guns” and hand gestures. Once he pointed at Mase.
The war chief spoke again briefly and nodded at Mase.
“This man is Cloudy Moon,” said East Wind. “We’re talking pretty good because he knows some Siouan and I know some Choctaw. I told him you’re our leader. He says you will make a decision to go back to where you come from, to fight, or to pay.”
“Now we’re getting to it,” said Denver.
“What does he want for safe passage?” Mase asked.
“Says he wants twenty steers, five pounds of coffee, five pounds of sugar, a hundred dollars in gold—too much of everything, boss.”
“Offer him two steers, one half pound of coffee, one half pound of sugar. Let him bargain us up to three steers and a little more of the goods. And I’ve brought six good hunting knives and five blankets for trading.”
East Wind set to bargaining with a lot of discourse and hand signs, showing two fingers for two steers. Cloudy Moon scowled and made a slashing motion with his hand and gave a great speech with such expressive hand gestures that Mase almost understood him.
Back and forth it went till at last they struck a deal: three steers, a pound of coffee, a pound of sugar, a jar of blackstrap, four knives, five blankets, and forty dollars in gold.
They shook on it, and then East Wind arranged a deputation of Indians to come to the herd to receive their barter goods.
Five Indians, including Cloudy Moon, fetched their painted ponies and came along with the drovers. All of the warriors were armed with rifles; they talked in blithe tones, sometimes laughing.
Mase was tense the whole way back, but the Chickasaws made no hostile move. Pug and Rufus rode up, hands on their holstered pistols, to meet the party. “Mr. Durst—you need us to fight you out of this?” Rufus asked, looking at the armed Indians with wide eyes.